Four Times Aramis Asked His Friends Not To Leave Him
by ponygirl72
Summary: ... and one time he didn't have to ask. Does exactly what the title says. Fair warning: the last section of this story was written before Series 2 aired, and has been completely jossed at this point. Let's just call it a slightly more historically accurate AU, shall we? Trigger warning for off-screen miscarriage.


**Four Times Aramis Asked His Friends Not to Leave Him, and One Time He Didn't Have to Ask **

**I.**

Early on in Porthos' career with the King's musketeers, Aramis had described this to him as _one of the perks of the job_\- standing around on guard duty at the nobility's social events, looking dashing and attracting the amorous attention of the fine ladies in attendance.

He wondered if Aramis was currently rethinking those sentiments, hemmed in on two sides as he was by the notorious Lasalle sisters. Porthos restrained his chuckle manfully, but allowed his smirk free rein as he noted the hint of desperation beginning to play around Aramis' eyes.

The Lasalle sisters- fifty years old if they were a day- had a bit of a reputation at court. Both married young; both were widowed within a few years, with no children. Since then, it was said, no soldier was safe. One was very short and fat. The other was very tall and thin. While some ladies of a certain age were described with phrases like "noble features", "faded grandeur", and "autumn beauty", Porthos had never heard such words paired with either of the women currently flashing wrinkled decolletage at his fellow soldier.

Of course, that wasn't enough, in itself, to curb Aramis' silver tongue and rakish smile. Porthos had seen Aramis charm stooped and wrinkled innkeepers' wives and plain farmers' daughters, flirting outrageously but harmlessly and later claiming with perfect equanimity that all women deserved to feel appreciated and desirable upon occasion. Indeed, if he were being honest with himself, this charm and generosity of spirit was one of the things that had drawn Porthos to Aramis in the first place.

Nonetheless, that hadn't stopped Porthos warning his friend on numerous occasions that the liberal application of what Aramis called his "courtly behaviour" (and Porthos called his "blatant innuendo") would get him into trouble one day.

Today was apparently that day, and Porthos shook his head slowly as Aramis, in his doomed attempt to maintain some degree of personal space in the face of the Lasalle Assault, bumped solidly against the wall behind him, leaving him trapped and at the mercy of the shuddersome pair of harpies who were eyeing him up like a prime bit of roast.

The whole effect was not dissimilar to witnessing a gruesome road accident, and Porthos found himself drifting closer to watch the wreck- though with a keen awareness of the zone of safety necessary to prevent being drawn into the fray himself. So it was that he ended up with a clear view from half a dozen paces away when Athos arrived on the scene to inform Aramis that his shift on duty had ended.

"Oh, how divine!" fluttered the taller sister upon hearing Athos' proclamation. "My dear Aramis, now that your duties have been fulfilled for the evening, you simply _must_ accompany us to our carriage for a more- _ahem_\- private audience. We've heard _so much_ about your reputation as a man of the world!"

During this little speech, the lady's hand had migrated stealthily southward from Aramis' shoulder, disappearing coyly toward the small of his back, and lower still. Athos' single raised eyebrow communicated his opinion of the situation in which Aramis found himself perfectly, but aloud, he merely offered his excuses and began to move off, toward Porthos.

"Athos, my friend," Aramis said quickly, his eyes glazed slightly with genteel panic. "Surely you needn't rush off just yet. Won't you stay awhile, and enjoy the party?"

"Would that it were possible," replied Athos in a tone completely without inflection, and Porthos felt his admiration for the man swell at the perfectly delivered bald-faced lie. "Sadly, however, I am called away on the King's business. Fear not, though, ladies- I am sure Aramis will prove a diverting enough companion for both of you."

Athos turned to catch Porthos' eye, the picture of professional deportment. "Porthos? Your duty for the evening is complete, as well. You are relieved."

_At least one of us is_, Porthos thought, watching the flush rise on Aramis' face.

"Porthos, my friend," Aramis said quickly. "Perhaps you would care to join us, instead?"

Porthos only grinned. "So sorry," he said insincerely, "but you heard what Athos said. Important business for the King, and all that. Have a lovely evening, you three."

As the pair turned and left, Porthos heard an audible _gulp_ from behind him, and could no longer contain his low rumble of laughter.

**II.**

Treville was taking a long and boring report from Bertrand and Pierre when the messenger boy entered his office.

"Yes, what is it?" he asked, brusque in the face of yet another interruption during an afternoon which had already been fraught with them.

"Sir," the lad said breathlessly, "I'm to tell you that there has been a massacre at Savoy, on Good Friday. Twenty dead and two injured."

Pierre made a noise like an injured bird, and Bertrand paled noticeably, but Treville scarcely noticed, such was the depth and breadth of the chasm that opened abruptly in the space between his own heart and lungs.

"Who sent word? Who were the survivors?" he forced out, while thinking _I will kill the Cardinal, I will run my sword through his scrawny abdomen and gut him like a fish_.

"I don't know, sir," said the boy. "Sorry, sir."

"Bertrand, Pierre, you're dismissed," he said in a hoarse voice, feeling as if the words were coming from a long distance away, through a tunnel. "Pierre, pay the boy on your way out."

His actions mechanical and without thought, Treville donned his cuirass, cloak, and sword belt in moments, and rode for the palace as if the hounds of hell were upon his heels.

The Cardinal was in an audience with the King when Treville forced his way in, unannounced, to the fluttering dismay of several servants.

"Ah, Captain," the urbane First Minister greeted. "We've been expecting you, though I admit to some surprise at your ill-mannered method of entrance."

Treville strode up without pausing and grabbed Richelieu by the front of his ornate leather jerkin.

"I will kill you slowly and painfully, you spineless bastard, but first I want the King to know what you've done," he said, his face inches from the other man's.

"Stand down, Captain Treville!" the King ordered, looking mildly shocked by the threat of violence between his two advisors.

"Not until this _snake_ answers for the death of twenty of my men, sire!" Treville shouted, punctuating it by giving Richelieu a sharp shake.

Richelieu looked down at Treville with a sneer of disdain. "And these would be twenty of the men whose position you gave away to the Duke of Savoy, I presume?"

A red haze drifted across Treville's vision. "After _you_ told me to do so on the King's orders, you lying devil!"

"Enough!" Louis ordered. "Release the Cardinal this instant, Captain. He was telling you the truth; those orders did come from us."

Treville physically stumbled back a step as the ground seemed to disappear from beneath him. "Y-your Majesty?"

"That is what we were discussing, Treville, before your needlessly melodramatic entrance," said Richelieu. "News of the, ahem, _unfortunate incident_ reached the palace only an hour ago."

"Yes," said Louis in his vague drawl. "Terribly sad, but quite necessary, I'm afraid. We needed a diversion to pull the Duke's troops away from his capital, you see. His advisor Cluzet was in possession of sensitive knowledge about our sister, the Duchess; he was about to expose her as our principal spy in the region. Fortunately, our operatives were able to capture Cluzet while the Duke and his forces went after your men, and I'm pleased to say that he is on his way to a French prison even as we speak."

Treville felt as though the foundations of his world had been turned upside down. Of all the questions clamouring for his attention- _How could you betray my faithful service in such a way? How can I possibly command these men if they discover that I sent their brothers to their deaths for a ruse?_\- it was the least important one which spilled from his lips.

"Why would the Duke attack King's musketeers on a peaceful training mission?"

King Louis had the good grace to look faintly abashed. "Ah. As it happens, our contacts may have implied that the company was there on a mission to assassinate the Duke and place his infant son on the throne. I imagine he was quite put out when he heard that."

Words deserted Treville, leaving him gaping in silence for an awkward few moments.

"I must go," he said eventually, lacking anything to say which would even begin to address the reality of what he'd just been told. "I must see to my men."

He vaguely realised that he must have turned and started walking away without deference to his monarch when he heard the King exclaim "How rude!" to his retreating back, and Richelieu reply, "We must make allowances for the man, sire. After all, he has just received a nasty shock...".

It was completely inevitable that the news would have spread through the garrison like wildfire in his absence. Therefore, it was no surprise to find Athos and Porthos- the two remaining Inseparables- readying horses in the courtyard when Treville rode in.

The pair moved forward to intercept him as soon as they saw him.

"Aramis was with the company in Savoy," said Athos in his usual level tone. "We're going there immediately, sir, to bring him home. Do not attempt to stop us."

"I'm not stopping you," Treville replied grimly. "I'm going with you. Serge!" The old cook poked his long face out from the kitchens. "Get rations for three days' hard riding. Renauld! Fetch me a pack and a bedroll from the quartermaster. We leave in ten minutes!"

Treville was confident that he had never in his forty-seven years covered as much distance in as short a time as he and his men did in the following two-and-a-half days. They stopped every few hours to trade their exhausted mounts for fresh ones, using Treville's own coin to pay. In this way, they managed not to actually kill any horses on the frantic journey, though it had been a near thing on the outskirts of Lyon when Porthos' mare pulled up lame and blowing, sweat dripping from her flanks like rain.

Night and day they rode, stopping only for an hour here and there when one or the other of them was in danger of slipping from the saddle due to exhaustion. It was a ragged company indeed which rode into the little town of Les Avenières on the morning of the third day, a full hundred and fifty leagues from Paris.

Treville's joints and muscles reminded him with every stride of his advancing years, but he welcomed the pain as a distraction from his endlessly circling thoughts. There had been far too much time to think on the journey.

No doubt his soldiers' thoughts had been dedicated to grief and worry over the probable fate of their friend, and the sharp loss of twenty valued comrades. Treville's, however, spun in a storm of sick, impotent rage. The Spanish would presumably be blamed for the massacre. Treville's loyalty to France, and the crown, prevented him from naming the Cardinal as the instigator... for to name the Cardinal would be to name the King.

Impossible. Unthinkable.

Even if his own role as unwitting traitor came to light- which was unlikely- there would be no punishment... except, perhaps, the loss of all respect from the men he led. The dead would never see justice. Never. He would have to carry the guilt and anger inside, unseen, for a lifetime. Not a day would pass where he did not see the ghosts of twenty good men when he closed his eyes at night.

Now, though, it was time to deal with the aftermath. Eight days had passed since Good Friday. Two had survived; did they survive still?

Ragged or not, their uniforms caused whispers and sidelong looks as the three men entered the town. Making immediately for the inn, Treville summoned the landlord and asked the man if he knew of a massacre of King's musketeers in the woods nearby.

"Aye," said the man. "'Orrible business, it was. All dead except one deserter who came through 'ere like the flames of hell were licking at 'is back, and another who's lost 'is senses, attacking anyone who tries to come an' clear away the bodies."

Porthos growled, and Athos looked as strained and pale as Treville had ever seen him.

"Thank you," he told the innkeeper. "We'll take care of him."

It was Aramis.

Whatever relief and joy Porthos and Athos must have felt upon discovering that their friend had survived the odds was quickly replaced by horror when the pale figure wrapped in dirty, blood-soaked bandages charged the three of them with a drawn sword, screaming hoarsely.

Fearing that the others were too overcome to react, Treville drew his own blade, ready to defend them from their deranged brother if necessary.

"Aramis, stop!" Athos' voice rang out, strong and commanding.

"It's us!" Porthos cried.

Whether due to his friends' voices or sheer exhaustion, Aramis' knees gave out beneath him and he crumpled into a heap on the cold, wet ground. The other two rushed to him, but Treville's gaze was drawn against his will to the scene behind the collapsed soldier.

Twenty dead men lay in neat rows at the edge of the trees, their cloaks covering their faces and upper bodies. Dead horses lay scattered around the clearing; one had been butchered for the meat of its haunch.

_Eight days_, Treville thought to himself, bile rising in his stomach. _Eight days the lad has been here, alone with the dead, surviving on rotting horseflesh and surrounded by this hell of your making._

He dragged his eyes back to the living by force of will. Porthos was approaching Aramis as one might approach a wounded animal. The injured man shuffled backward across the ground, weakly, shaking his head in violent negation and muttering a litany of "No, no, _please_, God,_ no_... not _this_". Athos stood frozen in place a few steps away.

"Aramis," Porthos pleaded.

"No, no, you can't be here; you are supposed to be safe," Aramis whispered. "Dear God, must I be haunted by your ghosts as well as the others? I cannot bear it!"

Porthos dropped to his knees next to the overwrought man, reaching out to grip his shoulder. Aramis flinched violently at the touch of solid flesh.

"How-?" he asked, wide, dazed eyes locking on Porthos' face. "H-have I finally died as well? Have you come to take me with you? If all of my brothers are truly dead, then I go willingly." Tears filled his eyes. "Forgive me! I tried to save you- all of you, but I was too weak..."

Athos made a small noise of pain and moved to join his friends, crouching down as Porthos clasped Aramis other shoulder as well, shaking him once, lightly.

"Aramis, no," said Porthos. "Stop."

"We're not dead, and neither are you," Athos said in a hoarse voice. "You'll find none less likely to be angels than the two of us, brother. We've come to take you home- to _Paris_; not to your eternal rest." Athos took one of Aramis' hands in his, lifting it to press against his chest, beneath his doublet and over his heart. "Feel that?"

Aramis gaze flickered from Porthos' face to his, and back.

"You're... you're really here? Oh, God! Oh, _God_." He sobbed once, undone. "Is it finally over? Please let it be over..."

Porthos gathered Aramis into his arms as the injured man began to weep uncontrollably. "It's over," he said, his own voice none too steady. "We've got you. Shh... we've got you now."

Athos fisted a hand in the loose material of Aramis' shirtsleeve, curving his body over the other two protectively, and Treville felt another stab of pain in his already guilt-riddled heart that he should be a witness to such intimacy in the aftermath of his own unknowing treachery. Athos' eyes were tightly closed, but opened when Treville cleared his throat softly.

"I'll fetch men and carts from the town. Look after him," he told his lieutenant softly. Athos nodded once in acknowledgement, and Treville fled the sight of two of his strongest soldiers crying like babes in each others' arms, while the third hovered over them as if he could somehow shelter them from all the world's hurts.

Three hours later, when he returned with teams of draught horses pulling a motley assortment of wagons, and strapping boys from the town and neighbouring farms, Porthos and Athos had Aramis cleaned up and freshly bandaged, wrapped in blankets and propped in front of a warm fire with a cup of broth in his trembling hands.

The townsfolk made short work of loading the bodies and packing up everything worth salvaging from the camp. Porthos led Aramis to the last cart, and he and Athos lifted the injured man into it. Aramis clutched at their sleeves as they leaned back, his face pale.

"Don't leave me," he said. "Please, my brothers. I cannot face riding back with only the ghosts for company. I have already been alone with them for too long."

"Of course not," said Athos, as Porthos covered Aramis hand with his own. "We won't leave you."

As one, Athos' and Porthos' eyes sought Treville, and he nodded, calling for a couple of the young men.

"Clear the back of this cart," he said. "Load it on two of the riding horses instead."

Once space was cleared, the two men climbed up, arranging their friend between them in a nest of blankets and canvas. As Treville approached to make sure they were settled, Aramis looked up at him.

"I'm sorry I failed you, Captain," he said. "I tried, but I couldn't help them. I couldn't even stop Marsac from leaving, after he saved my life. We should have gone back to fight, but I was injured and Marsac was trying to hide me. If only I'd stopped him somehow... kept him from running..."

It took all of Treville's strength to hold Aramis' gaze and be the commander he needed, steady of voice and firm of resolve.

"It was not your fault, Aramis," he said. "None of this was your fault. You behaved honourably, and with courage. You treated your fallen comrades with dignity. You protected them and stayed with them until help arrived. That you have survived is the one spot of brightness in this unimaginable tragedy. I am deeply proud of your actions."

Aramis' eyes skittered down and to the side, and Treville knew he was not ready to hear the words. With a final, meaningful look at the other two, he turned an mounted the driver's seat of the cart, shooing the boy who was sitting there off to one of the other wagons.

Treville would drive this cart and its precious cargo home himself.

**III.**

It was, Constance thought, just possible that the four men riding next to her had come to know her better than was proper for men to know a respectable married woman who wasn't otherwise related to them.

Baby Henry was safe. So was his mother- off to a new life; a fresh start. That was a happy ending, wasn't it? Certainly the musketeers seemed to think so, given the way they were currently debating where to go and how to celebrate. Well... all except Aramis, that is, who seemed uncharacteristically quiet and withdrawn.

And yet, it had taken d'Artagnan all of two seconds to notice the minute hesitation as Constance settled Henry in Aramis' arms, and to call her out on it, gently teasing. It was as well that he couldn't see any deeper into her thoughts; to the place where her mind constructed daring fantasies of running away with him, fleeing to a new land with Henry. Pretending to be a family.

No one would be able to tell... one infant looked like any other, as far as men were concerned. They wouldn't connect a young family moving to a new place to make their fortune with a supposedly dead heir to the throne. How could they?

It was a nice dream.

Of course, she could never do that to poor Agnès; not really. The woman had already suffered more in the past few weeks than anyone should have to suffer in a lifetime. And d'Artagnan would not leave his friends... nor would she want him to, really. They were also her friends, of a sort- if you stretched the definition of the word "friends" to include "people who brought chaos to your doorstep on a regular basis".

Not that society would approve of a woman having such friends, mind you.

The rocking canter of the great hulk of a gelding the others had found for her to ride was soothing, bringing back childhood memories of sitting on Old Charlotte as Papa drove her back from the fields in the evening, pretending alternately to be a knight charging into battle or a princess being kidnapped by villains, awaiting rescue by a dashing prince.

If only her life now could be as simple as it was when she was a lass, before she was promised to a man she did not love, and who seemed to have no interest in giving her a child who might help to fill that empty place in her heart. Instead, she was left mostly to her own devices, succumbing by degrees to the temptations offered to her by her husband's lodger and his comrades. Things would, she reflected, be far easier if succumbing didn't feel so _right_.

Fields and farms gave way to roads and buildings as Constance remained lost in her own thoughts, until finally Porthos pulled up, indicating a tavern with a reasonably respectable looking clientele coming and going.

"This is the place," he said, smiling one of his big smiles like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. "Safe enough for a lady to stop for a meal, and yet the drink is not too dear for the rest of us."

"Perfect!" d'Artagnan exclaimed, and Athos gave a small nod of assent as they all dismounted and began tying up the horses.

"Wait, what?" asked Constance, looking from one to the other for a clue as to what she had missed after the men's voices had faded to a drone in the back of her mind. D'Artagnan laughed softly at her.

"You really were a thousand miles away, weren't you?" he asked, eyes sparkling. "Your husband won't be back for hours yet, you said. Come share a meal and a drink with us. Help us celebrate."

A thousand reasons why it was a bad idea crowded into her mind. What if someone recognised her? What would people think of a woman carousing with four soldiers? What if Jacques found out? What if-

"I shouldn't..." she began. "I ought to get home. It's only a few more miles. I could-"

"Don't leave," Aramis interrupted, surprising her. "This is as much your victory as ours. You deserve to celebrate it."

"But-" she protested.

"_Constance_," Aramis said, effectively stilling her lips. "No one knows you in this part of Paris. All people will see is a fine lady being escorted by a company of King's Musketeers. Why, we'll even make sure that Porthos doesn't get involved in any duels while we're here... or card games, for that matter."

"Hey!" Porthos objected, the severe frown not quite reaching his eyes.

"Me, a fine lady- in this dress? Not likely," Constance grumbled for form's sake. "Oh, all right then, I suppose it would be rude to refuse such nicely delivered invitation. Though I would like to point out that the last time I listened to you lot, I ended up unlacing my corset in front of _Marie de Medici_. So if this goes wrong somehow, I'm blaming all of you, and _you_-" she pointed at Aramis, "- are getting another slap."

Aramis swept his hat off and pressed it to his chest with a smirk, bowing faintly to her.

"As long as it's not a blade through the heart, My Lady Defender," he said, a light entering his eyes for the first time since they'd left for the rendezvous with Agnès. "Which reminds me, I have yet to regale the others with tales of your fine swordsmanship."

"Her fine _what_?" yelped d'Artagnan, his voice rising to a squeak on the last word as Constance blushed. Even Athos raised an eyebrow.

"And you never did tell me where you learned to fight like that," Aramis continued. She could not prevent her eyes from flickering back to d'Artagnan, and Aramis nodded once, a silent "Ahh" forming on his lips. He placed a gentle hand between her shoulder blades, guiding her towards the door of the tavern. "I should have guessed. It's actually frightening how well-suited the two of you are to each other, you know. Nonetheless, dear lady- _details_. I shall need all of the details..."

Despite herself, Constance couldn't stop the happy flush that suffused her body as she allowed Aramis to escort her into the building, the others following at her back.

**IV.**

D'Artagnan knocked lightly on the lintel of the low doorway leading into the Mother Superior's bedroom. Captain Treville looked up from his seat next to the bed where Serge lay unconscious, bandages swathing his torso, and jerked his chin to indicate he could enter.

"How is he, sir?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Not good, but there's a chance he'll pull through," said Treville. "Aramis took the musket ball out and stitched him up, but he lost a lot of blood and there's a real danger of infection."

"Serge is strong for his age, and Aramis is the best I've ever seen at sewing up wounds," d'Artagnan said, trying for optimism.

"True enough, on both counts," said Treville. "All we can do is wait and see. Now, though, I have a task for you. A company of musketeers should arrive in a few hours to relieve us. The nuns have agreed to let Serge stay here to recover for as long as necessary, along with a couple of men to take care of him, but the rest of us will leave for Paris at first light tomorrow. I need you to find the others and make sure they get some rest."

"I'll do my best," said d'Artagnan. "And what about you, sir?"

Treville turned back to the bed and its pale, unmoving occupant. "I'll be right here, should you need me."

D'Artagnan's quest began fortuitously enough. Scarcely had he turned into the hallway outside the sickroom when he narrowly avoided crashing into Porthos' solid chest, coming just as he was leaving.

"How's Serge?" Porthos asked, reaching out a hand to steady d'Artagnan.

"Still alive, but it's a serious wound," he answered. "Treville's with him."

Porthos nodded solemnly. "Serge is tough as old boots," he said. "He'll pull through yet. And Treville's known him forever; Serge was already a veteran soldier when Treville joined the regiment as a young man. The captain will take good care of him."

D'Artagnan nodded. "Speaking of the captain, I'm supposed to tell you and the others to get some sleep. We'll be riding out in the morning. Where are the others, anyway?"

"Athos was in the refectory earlier. Not sure about Aramis. Maybe Athos will know."

Athos was still in the refectory, acquainting himself with a bottle of the sisters' excellent grape and honey brandy. He inclined his head, acknowledging them as they entered the large room.

"Serge is still hanging on," Porthos reported. "Treville's watching him tonight."

"Good to hear," said Athos.

"He sent d'Artagnan to play Mother Hen for us; apparently we're leaving first thing in the morning," Porthos continued.

"Treville wants all of us to get some rest before them," d'Artagnan chipped in.

"I am resting," Athos said.

"Really?" d'Artagnan replied. "Because it looks from here as if you're drinking."

"Same thing, surely?" Athos said, deadpan, and Porthos chuckled.

"I didn't realise this was going to be perilous duty when I accepted my orders," d'Artagnan said with an air of amused resignation. "I don't suppose you know where Aramis might be found?"

A cloud passed over Athos' face, and he rose from his seat after taking a final draught of the brandy.

"I can hazard a guess," he said.

The small chapel was dimly lit with flickering candlelight. A young woman, pretty in a plain, unassuming way, lay in repose on a trestle, her hands folded peacefully on her breast. A dark stain of dried blood over her heart marred the white robe covering her.

Movement caught the corner of d'Artagnan's eye, and his attention was drawn to the figure of Aramis, slouched against the wall in the corner of the chapel like a marionette with its strings cut.

"Aramis?" he said, and the older man looked up in surprise, lowering the hand that had been resting over his eyes and straightening his spine.

"Who was she?" Porthos asked softly, walking forward to stand in front of the body and making the sign of the cross.

"Sister Helene," Aramis said, his voice a shade too casual. "A nun who was helping us. She was shot by one of Gallaghers's men."

"I believe, Aramis," Athos said in a voice dry enough to parch solid rock, "that Porthos was asking who she was to _you_."

Aramis closed his eyes and answered in a tired voice. "No one. She was no one to me."

"Indeed." Athos raised an eyebrow, moving across the room to stand in front of the other man and look down at him. "And are you in the habit of weeping over random strangers on the battlefield? Strange, because we have shared many battles, and I never noticed the tendency before this."

Aramis was on his feet instantly, his features hard.

"Forgive me for thinking a man might have the right to a bit of privacy when it comes to matters from his past, _Monsieur le Comte_," he snapped, and d'Artagnan felt a sharp pang of unease at the low blow, and the sudden tension in the room.

"_Aramis_," Porthos said, sounding taken aback himself. "He's only worried about you."

"Then he can stop worrying, and so can you," Aramis said, biting off each word. "I'm perfectly fine."

"Clearly," Athos enunciated, his face carved from stone. "In that case, forgive the intrusion to your privacy. Treville has ordered us to get some sleep; we ride in the morning. Until then, we'll leave you in peace."

Athos spun with military precision and strode for the entryway. Behind him, Aramis seemed to turn in on himself as he slid back down the wall. Porthos threw a worried look backward as he made to follow Athos, and d'Artagnan found himself reluctant to leave at all, despite the implicit order in Athos' words.

"Wait," said Aramis in a weary tone. "Don't leave."

Porthos blew out a relieved breath, and turned back. Athos stopped, spine held straight, still facing the door.

"Forgive me Athos," Aramis continued. "That was crass of me."

Athos relaxed minutely, pivoting enough that he could meet the other man's eyes sidelong. "No doubt I have said and done worse over the course of our acquaintance."

"You have," Porthos interjected. "Good thing it's not a contest."

Athos inclined his head in acknowledgement. "Just so. At any rate, consider it forgotten."

Misery painted every line of Aramis' body as he nodded in agreement. Following an instinct, d'Artagnan deliberately crossed over to him and sat against the wall an arm's length away.

"If you don't wish to talk about it, perhaps we could simply stay and keep you company during your vigil for awhile?" he offered.

"Counts as resting in my book," Porthos said with a shrug, settling himself at the end of a pew across from them, with his back against the wall and his legs resting lengthwise down the bench, ankles crossed.

"Indeed," Athos concurred, settling himself on the floor next to Porthos' pew. "It wouldn't do to turn any of the sisters out of their beds for our own benefit, but orders are orders."

Aramis' features softened, and he glanced down, not meeting their eyes. "I fear I am not good company tonight."

"Really?" Athos asked. "We hadn't noticed."

Aramis shook his head, finding half a smile for his friends and a huff of self-deprecating laughter.

"Only, I can't-" he trailed off, letting silence fall for a few moments before starting again. "Let me tell you a story. Once upon a time, there was a sixteen-year-old boy who lived in a village near the Spanish border."

"Hmm," Porthos said, pretending to consider. "And this boy... I don't suppose he was handsome and talented; the pride of the village?"

"No," Aramis said. "As it happens, he was a cocksure little imbecile who thought the rules didn't apply to him."

"So, no one we know, then," Athos chimed in.

Aramis glanced over at him wryly before sobering.

"He seduced a girl- a sweet and comely girl named Isabelle who should have had a wonderful life to look forward to- and made her pregnant. A marriage between the two was arranged immediately, but before it could be completed, she lost the baby."

D'Artagnan frowned, struck by the hollowness behind the man's eyes. One would assume that Aramis the Notorious Libertine would quail at the thought of being tied down by a wife and child, but d'Artagnan had a sudden, vivid flash of him as a father, playing at sword fighting with a dark-haired boy; teaching an achingly beautiful little girl to dance.

"The lad was heartbroken, but he would still have gone through with the marriage. Instead, though, Isabelle disappeared- whisked away to a convent. The boy begged and railed against her father, demanding to be told where she was, but the man refused. He searched for her for months, in vain, not understanding that fleeing had been Isabelle's own idea.

"It turns out, she knew the boy better than he knew himself. She knew him enough to know that he would never be happy in one place, with one woman, living a life without adventure. So she freed him to follow the life he secretly wanted, until one day adventure brought him back to her.

"Instead of a joyful reunion, though, he brought death to her door, and she followed her child into the hereafter. Once again, she had freed him to go back to his life in service of the sword. Only now, that life would be haunted by her spirit, as well as the spirit of a child that never was. Two deaths among hundreds on his conscience, but two that weigh heavier than most."

Silence fell as the other three digested this.

"She was brave," Athos said. "She blocked me bodily when I tried to close the gates, immediately after we arrived."

"She was," Aramis agreed in a hoarse voice. "She killed a man twice her size with his own weapon, and saved my life at the cost of her own."

"Then I owe her a debt of gratitude," Athos said.

"We all do," Porthos agreed.

D'Artagnan nodded his agreement as well. "Was she happy here, do you think?" he asked.

Aramis looked at him, taken aback for a moment by the question. "I... don't know. Perhaps. She said she had found her calling in service to God, as I had found mine in service to the sword."

"Then I fail to see how her life was ruined," d'Artagnan continued. "She followed her vocation to God in life, and in death she is assured a place by His side. Any of us would give our lives in service to the Crown; it sounds as though she gave hers as willingly."

Aramis' eyes grew wet, and he looked down and away, blinking.

"When did you get so wise, whelp?" Porthos asked affectionately, and d'Artagnan could not stop the slow blush that crawled up his neck.

"Well, it certainly isn't due to the company he keeps," Aramis said in a light voice, recovering himself.

"Indeed not," Athos agreed with a wry twist of his lips. "Aramis, allow us to carry this burden with you. The rest of you get some sleep. I'll keep the vigil for now, and wake Porthos in a couple of hours. We'll take it in shifts, and see if we can at least follow Treville's orders in letter this night, if not exactly in spirit."

**... And the One Time He Didn't Have to Ask.**

The sombre mood at the garrison was palpable when Athos and Aramis rode in after a long day patrolling the streets of the city. Aramis, who had been expounding on his plans for the evening- involving, as they usually did, some combination of wine, women, and song- trailed off abruptly, his cheerful banter jarringly out of place among the low, serious conversation of the men loitering around the edges of the courtyard.

The pair slid off their horses, handing the reins to young Jaques, who led the animals away to be fed and watered.

"Who died?" Aramis asked bemusedly and not entirely rhetorically, as he and Athos moved to straddle one of the benches next to a rough table.

Bertrand turned to them, abandoning his plate of mutton to regard Aramis with lugubrious green eyes; the older musketeer's grizzled red moustache seeming to droop even more than usual.

"Queen got 'erself hurt, didn't she?" he said. "Jean Paul said he was on the detail guarding 'er when she rode out this afternoon. They were wandering along the path, slow an' calm as you please, when all of the sudden a hare was flushed right under 'er horse's nose. The cursed nag spooked sideways, an' she lost 'er seat an' went down hard."

Athos stiffened, realising the danger of what might come next even as the blood drained from his companion's face. He snaked a hand out, grabbing Aramis unobtrusively above the elbow in warning, but he may as well have been a ghost for all the notice the younger man took of him.

"Is she all right? You said she was hurt," Aramis asked in a tight voice, leaning forward urgently. "What about the baby?"

Athos tightened his fingers in warning until they ached, digging into Aramis' arm like a vice, but Bertrand only reached out and patted him roughly on the shoulder.

"I know you're a favourite of hers, lad," he commiserated. "Everyone says she gave you that crucifix you wear. Try not to worry, eh? Jean Paul said she was unconscious after the fall, but they rushed her off to the King's physician right away. He'll soon put 'er to rights."

"No doubt she's in good hands," Athos said, drawing attention away from the way Aramis paled even further. "Come, Aramis, weren't you just saying that you had an appointment with a young lady in an hour?" He nodded to Bertrand politely and tried not to look as though he was manhandling Aramis to his feet. "I'm sure all our prayers are with Her Majesty this night. Good evening, Bertrand."

Athos herded Aramis into the darkness under the entryway to the garrison and and thumped his back against the cool stones of the wall, none too gently.

"We're going back to your rooms," he said flatly. "Get yourself under control."

Aramis looked at him with eyes that begged him to somehow fix things. "This cannot be happening, Athos. God would not be so cruel."

Athos shook him once, firmly. "Aramis, you don't have all the information. You barely have _any_ information. It may be nothing- a brief swoon after an unexpected fright. Come. We are leaving. _Now._"

"Oy," said a familiar deep voice from somewhere behind Athos, and his stomach fell further, if that was even possible. "There you two are. What are you doing hiding back here in the shadows, anyway?"

"Aramis?" D'Artagnan's voice joined Porthos', and Athos felt his shoulders slump in defeat. "What's wrong? You look awful!"

_This evening is going to be a clusterfuck of the highest order,_ Athos thought with something approaching resignation. _But at least now I won't have to drag Aramis back to his rooms without assistance._

"Aramis has had a serious shock, and isn't feeling himself," he said aloud. "Why don't you two help me get him home where we can all get extremely drunk, and then we'll have a talk."

The first part of Athos' plan went as smoothly as could be expected under the circumstances; the second, less so.

Instead of sitting down and drinking his wine like a reasonable person, Aramis paced incessantly in the small space, his hair tangled and mussed from running his hands through it restlessly. D'Artagnan looked worried; Porthos, uncertain.

"Mate," said the big man. "I know you've got a thing for her, but you need to _calm down_. For all we know, she just twisted her ankle and she'll be back at court tomorrow, bright as you please. There's no reason to think the worst."

Aramis didn't even slow down, his hand plucking now at the black cord hanging around his neck. "She shouldn't have been riding. If she landed wrong, it could have jarred the pregnancy loose. Haemorrhage... internal bleeding... they could _both_ die. And for what- a chance to prove to the King that she shares his love of 'outdoor pursuits'?"

"Aramis!" Porthos exclaimed, looking a bit scandalised, even as d'Artagnan drew in a surprised breath behind him. "This is the King and Queen you're talking about! Anyone would think you were fretting over your own wife and child, the way you're going on about it."

Athos had never been so glad to have a good face for cards in his life.

Unfortunately, Aramis could not boast the same, and Porthos was far more perceptive than most people gave him credit for. Athos watched as Porthos' face morphed from shock, to concern, to suspicion, and back to shock. He turned to meet Athos' eyes, anger starting to enter the mix.

"Tell me he wouldn't be _that_ stupid..." Porthos practically growled.

"It's not my place to tell you any such thing," Athos said, "and I won't be dragged into the middle of it."

"Not like you have to say it anyhow," Porthos said, rising and blocking Aramis' path, forcing him to stop and take a half step back. "When it comes to women, if the question is 'Would Aramis be that stupid?', the answer is always 'Yes'."

"_I didn't intend for it to happen_," Aramis said with some heat.

"You didn't- Aramis, it's the bloody _Queen_, for God's sake!" Porthos yelled, slamming a fist down onto the table and forcing Athos to rescue his cup as the wine sloshed dangerously. "What the hell were you _thinking_!"

"Wait," said d'Artagnan, uncrossing his arms and detaching himself from the wall he'd been leaning against. "Back up a minute. Are you saying that Aramis got the Queen _pregnant_? How would you even _manage_ that? She's... she's the _Queen_!"

"It was at the convent," Aramis mumbled, not meeting any of their eyes.

"You knew about this, didn't you?" Porthos asked, pointing an accusing finger in Athos' face.

Athos shrugged. "Apparently our mutual friend didn't want to feel lonely when he ended up on the gallows awaiting execution for treason."

"He walked in on us, Porthos," Aramis said, sounding infinitely tired. "Otherwise he would never have known."

"You're really not going to rest until you get everyone in this room hanged, are you?" d'Artagnan asked, shaking his head in mild disbelief. "At the convent, though? So this happened-"

"After Isabelle died, yes," Aramis said softly, turning away from them. "She came to me afterward... comforted me. Told me about the baby she lost, and reassured me that my own dead child was loved and remembered. And now- God!- it's all happening again..."

Porthos let out a huge puff of breath and collapsed down into one of the chairs.

"_Fuck_, Aramis," he said, the anger visibly draining out of him. "Can't your life ever be simple?"

Aramis scrubbed his hands over his face, steeling himself.

"I have to see her," he said, swinging back around to face the doorway.

Two chairs scraped loudly across the flagstones of the floor as Athos and Porthos surged to their feet in unison.

"Take one more step toward that door and I will personally break both your legs," Athos said without inflection.

"And I'll sit on your chest until you pass out," Porthos added helpfully.

"I can't... just... sit here, not knowing!" Aramis shouted, clenching his fists.

"You can and you will," Athos replied.

D'Artagnan stepped forward hesitantly. "I could... go to the palace? Talk to Michel and see what I can find out; then come back here."

Athos frowned, turning to look at him. "Who's Michel?"

"He's that little pageboy d'Artagnan saved when the south wing of the palace caught fire last winter," Porthos said with a grunt. "The lad worships the ground he walks on now. Follows him around like a puppy."

"You're too young to have a protégé," Athos said, letting his glare land on d'Artagnan again. "You _are_ a protégé."

D'Artagnan, unconcerned, gave him a _what can you do?_ shrug.

Aramis placed a hand on d'Artagnan's sleeve and said, "Please, d'Artagnan, go. I must know how she is. How... they both... are. Hurry."

The younger man covered Aramis' hand with his own, squeezing it. "I'll be as quick as I can."

Time passed like treacle. Sleep was a distant dream, and Athos did not dare drink as much as he wished to, for fear of what the small, dark hours of the night might yet bring. Aramis was fidgety and withdrawn; Porthos, quiet and brooding.

All three tensed like hunting dogs on the scent when slow footsteps mounted the stairs outside. Aramis was on his feet, moving toward the door even as it opened, only to freeze as if turned to stone upon seeing the expression of sadness on d'Artagnan's face.

"No," Aramis said faintly, and the pain etched a little deeper into d'Artagnan's soft features.

"Aramis, I'm so sorry," the young musketeer said. "The baby was lost."

Aramis made a noise high in his throat like a wounded animal, and all three of them rushed to support him as he sagged.

"The Queen?" he asked. "What about... Anne?"

"Weak from blood loss," said d'Artagnan, "but expected to survive."

"At least I've not managed to kill both of them this time," Aramis said in a whisper.

"Hush," said Athos. "Come sit down."

No." Aramis jerked his arms free of their support and staggered back a step. "No, get out, all of you," he said in a broken voice. "Go. Leave me be."

"That's not going to happen," Athos replied, at the same time Porthos said, "The hell we will," and moved in to wrap Aramis in his arms. Athos stepped forward as well, embracing him from behind, even as d'Artagnan approached from the side and tangled a hand in Aramis' dark curls, leaning against the three of them.

Aramis let a ragged sob escape, keening his grief from within the circle of their arms, and Athos felt a stab of self-hatred at the little niggle of relief in his soul that the child was dead, and with him, Aramis' treasonous lapse of judgement. The man shaking against his chest might once again suffer the pain of a lost child, but he would be spared a lifetime of looking in from the outside at a secret he could never reveal, lest the cost be his own life.

And in the mean time, the three of them would ensure that he was not alone.

_fin_


End file.
